


lifehack

by edibleflowers



Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: F/M, Pre-Avengers Movie, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-01
Updated: 2012-12-01
Packaged: 2017-11-19 23:25:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,925
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/578789
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/edibleflowers/pseuds/edibleflowers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first time Natasha Romanoff learns of Clint Barton's existence is when he almost kills her. The beginning, and what came after.</p>
            </blockquote>





	lifehack

**Author's Note:**

> This fic seriously threatened my sanity and made me want to quit writing altogether. It would not exist, and it certainly would not be what it is, if not for lemniskate67's immense patience. I owe her a debt.
> 
> It's probably pretty clear that I don't have much experience writing in the spy genre. Any mistakes or inaccuracies are mine alone.

The first time Natasha Romanoff learns of Clint Barton's existence is when he almost kills her.

She's in her apartment in Monaco, where she's been preparing for a mission: an assassination, simply the latest in a line of them. Since she was a small child, Natasha has been immersed in the business of espionage. As she grew, she learned how to fight, how to defend herself with any number of forms of martial arts. She climbed trees like a cat, scaled ropes and buildings, became adept with knives and guns and bows.

She learned to hunt, to hack, to kill. In all that time, she has yet to be noticed or detected. She's a professional: she's excellent at what she does, and her supreme caution and paranoia have kept her alive and safe through more dangerous situations than she cares to remember -- until Hawkeye nearly gets her in the throat with an arrow.

It's sheer luck (so far as she knows) that she leans over to reach for a clip on the bed. When she hears the _fwip_ of the arrow and then the thunk as it lodges in the wall, shaft vibrating inches above her head, she grabs up the clip and jams it into the gun in her other hand, whirling up and into firing stance in seconds.

She sees nothing at first. This apartment is -- was -- a safe house for her, one of many she keeps around the world; but no more. Time to abandon.

Though there is no immediate second attack, she moves anyway. She drags the arrow out of the wall, slides along into a corner that isn't in direct line of the window through which the arrow must have come. Wherever her would-be killer is, he'll have to move to sight her again. Looking up at the window to guess the trajectory, she sees that the window had been opened. Not by her; she never opens the windows. 

A chill ripples itself down her spine. She inspects the arrow for a moment. Custom-made, it has a detachable head that probably could be replaced with any number of damaging items. And yet her enemy used a simple arrowhead. Warning?

She's already stayed too long in one place. From this position, she looks up through another high rectangular window -- this one closed -- and sees the momentary flash of a red light. It winks out a heartbeat later, but that's all she needs. Every move is planned now: she drops the arrow, moves low and fast to the locker by the door, opens it with a press of her thumb to the fingerprint lock, grabs her emergency bag from within.

As she ducks out the door, another arrow breaks the window, landing in the wall against which she was crouched. She hears beeping as she hurries down the stairs; before she's reached the landing two flights down, an explosion rocks the building.

Warning, all right.

* * *

The arrows, along with the telltale scope light, came from a building across the street, a story taller than the one she just left. The fire escape is a possibility, but it'll be too loud; she doesn't need him to hear her coming. She takes the stairs instead, drawing long shivering breaths on each landing so that she can be steady when she opens the roof doors to face her opponent.

The roof is empty. From the stairwell, Natasha searches the rooftop, disbelieving. Who would track her here, attack her, blow up her apartment, then leave without finishing the job? 

Comprehension comes in the next moment. She tucks and rolls to land flat on the rooftop, skidding in the gravel, pistols out and pointed up at the roof of the stairwell. It's barely wider than the stairs, but that's enough for the man crouching there. He holds a compound bow negligently in one hand, a deceptively casual pose. Like her, he's dressed in black, though his suit speaks of uniformity, an organization. His face is uncovered: in the light from below, she can see that he's not unhandsome. He is, bizarrely, smiling.

"Who are you?" she bites out, arms quivering in place.

He shrugs. "You can call me Hawkeye," he says. "I'm with Strategic Homeland Intervention Enforcement, Logistics Division. We're affiliated with the United States government," he adds, offhandedly, as if she doesn't already know that SHIELD is a task force with its fingers in pies all over the globe.

"They sent you to kill me," she mutters.

"You can put the guns down," Hawkeye says. He drops down to sit on the roof of the stairwell now, legs dangling in the open air. The bow rests on his lap, but she doesn't doubt that he could have it raised with an arrow notched in half a heartbeat.

Natasha sucks in deep breaths, her heart still racing. "Give me a good reason," she says.

Hawkeye shrugs, sets the bow aside. "I could have killed you three times already," he says, raising his hands in a classic pose of surrender. "Truce?"

She allows herself to consider this for a moment, then lowers her arms with slow deliberation. He watches as she pushes lightly to her feet, doesn't comment on the fact that she doesn't put the weapons away.

"Truce," she says finally. "Tell me why you didn't finish what you started."

The man drops his hands into his lap, as casual as if they're friends chatting. "Because I think you should be working with us, instead of against us."

"I've never taken one of your agents," she says.

"No," he agrees. "But you're on SHIELD's radar as it is. And someone who's done the things you've done, it's only a matter of time before someone comes after you. Revenge, whatever. Me, I tend to think you'd be better off with SHIELD, gettin' some protection and still doing what you do best."

Natalia Alianovna Romanova draws herself up to her full height, arms loose at her sides, ready to bring up her guns again. This man knows her history, has done his research. She's compromised. She has to kill him.

Something about his bold honesty amuses her, though. Her fingers twitch on the trigger guards; then, "You're insane," she says, sliding the guns into their holsters.

At that, he grins. "It's been said before." He pushes himself down off the stairwell roof now, sliding his bow over his shoulder, and offers a hand. "What do you say?"

Natasha smiles just briefly. "I'm sorry, Hawkeye, but I can't see any good reason why I should accept your offer."

He stays where he is; she watches the smile fade from his face. She has to wonder if he really thought it would be that simple. "You're risking your life if you don't," he says after a moment.

The woman who has come to be known in international circles as the Black Widow lets out a laugh at that. She takes one step back, two, and then she's lightly jumping to the shallow ledge at the lip of the roof. "I risk my life every day," she tells him. "You'll have to do better than that. No, I'm sorry, but my answer will have to be no."

She jumps up and back in one fluid motion. She can hear his boots scuffing over the rooftop gravel as he races to where she was standing, but by then she's already hooked her hands around a bar of the fire escape and let herself back inside via a broken window she'd noted before entering the building. Once she's hit the stairs, she races for the ground floor, grabbing her bag from where she'd left it as she goes out the back door and down an alley to the main street. 

At this time of night, there's little public transportation, but she pulls a scarf out of the bag and tucks it around her head, pinning it in place around her face. When she finally spies a cab, dropping off some drunk revelers, she hurries up and slips in before anyone else can claim it.

"The airport, please," she says, in a thick accent, and doesn't look back as the cab pulls out.

* * *

Two days later, she's in Singapore. She's covered her tracks as best she can, using one identity to book the flight, another to exit. Her hair remains covered; off the plane, she ties a new scarf tightly over the telltale red locks and dons a pair of sunglasses that covers most of her face.

Not taking any chances, she takes a long, roundabout route to her safehouse, in two different cabs and by foot. When she arrives at the place -- an apartment in an inconspicuous building, one of many in run-down slums full of children running underfoot -- she's nearly unlocked the door when she sees the note pinned on the door. It's written in English, stuck in the wood with a flimsy plastic arrow.

 _Found you_ , it reads, and Natasha turns and runs.

* * *

Although Clint hadn't expected the chase to go in quite this fashion, he can't deny that he's enjoying it. Natasha Romanoff is a fascinating woman in every aspect, from her incredible career as a super-assassin, practically without peer, to her razor-sharp intelligence -- and that's without mentioning her gorgeous looks and dancer's body. (Clint Barton is a professional, rigorously disciplined in his work. He is not, however, blind.)

He's spent weeks on research before ever approaching the Black Widow. She's a shadow, a ghost in the system, and SHIELD's information on her had proved thin and unhelpful, forcing him to get more creative. Though he'd felt a wave of despair when Director Fury first tasked him with the destruction of Natasha Romanoff -- surely an impossible job -- he'd begun to warm to it the more he'd learned of her. She's clever with her cover identities, to the point where some of the intel he uncovered made him question if Romanoff was even her true surname; she's dyed her hair or worn wigs so often that no one can tell her natural color for sure. 

The troubling part was how he'd begun to admire her as he dug into her background. He found very little before her emergence as an assassin-for-hire on the international scene -- nothing more than a few shady references to an underground training program in the former Soviet Union. Even his contacts refused to say more about it, which told him the program still had operatives and eyes working to keep it quiet. He wasn't getting paid to investigate that, so he left it alone. Even so, he'd begun to feel that this secret program wanted to recapture Romanoff.

No one would ever accuse Clint of being noble. He's not the white-knight, damsel-in-distress-saving type. Truth be told, he prefers women who can kick his ass and keep him sharp. But as he'd laid his groundwork, moving across the globe to find Romanoff's hidey-holes and cut her off from them, he'd changed his mind about killing her. If she's this good, he'd thought, there's no reason that can't be turned to SHIELD's benefit. It had nothing to do with saving her or keeping her from harm; she could clearly do that just fine herself. But he kind of wanted to have a drink with her.

So he'd offered an alternative to running or death. And so what if she didn't take him up on it right off (really, he should have known better than to think she'd trust him on first meeting him): there are going to be more chances. He grins as he settles back in his airplane seat, several rows back from the woman with the kerchief tied over her hair. If it's going to be cat and mouse, he'd much rather be the cat this time.

* * *

Natasha's been in trouble before, but never like this. It couldn't have come at a worse time, she thinks to herself on the next plane ride (this one to Germany, where she's praying her contacts haven't been neutralized); jobs have been harder to come by in the past few months, and though her reputation for making her target is well-known, she wonders if what she does is a viable career anymore. The world is changing around her. There's always intrigue, always men wanted dead by others: business rivals, jealous spouses, those in power who desire to keep it at all costs... but she is not the only freelancer in the world, and she is damaged in certain ways.

Those who caused the damage would have her, she knows; either in their care again, or dead. As long as she isn't actively working against them, she's certain they don't care which.

* * *

Munich is another dead end. Her contacts are either corpses or gone; her safehouse there has been compromised as well, though she goes into the little house anyway to raid it for supplies. Afterward, she steps outside and sees Hawkeye at the far end of the street, casual in jeans and a dark jacket. His arms are folded, one foot propped against the wall of the shop where he stands. Waiting for her.

Cold emptiness washes over her. She still has a few safe places, so far as she knows, but she's more afraid than ever now that she'll arrive at each one only to find him there, one step ahead of her. Or else he'll follow her to them, dogging her steps until she gives in.

Even so, when he takes a step toward her, she turns and flees.

* * *

The train to Budapest is quiet, and for a little while Natasha thinks she might be able to rest, if nothing else. She's been on the run for days now; she needs to formulate a plan, to turn the tables on Hawkeye and either finish him off or otherwise convince him to leave her alone.

Her reprieve lasts until she's left the train station, hurried down a side street and out to a plaza where she pauses to hail a cab. She's trusted the slouchy clothes -- a hoodie with the hood up, a different pair of sunglasses, baggy cargo pants -- to conceal her. When the hand grabs her by the neck and pulls her back into the alley, she curses her lapse in attentiveness.

Even as she's reaching for the arm (now locked around her shoulders) to flip him off her and free herself, she knows it's not Hawkeye who's taken her: the man behind her is significantly taller. She uses that against him, crouching to diminish her own height, a booted heel to the knee to get him off balance, and then she can flip him easily. He smacks up against the rubbish containers lining the opposite wall in a quick hard impact.

The baseball cap he'd been wearing falls off, and she finds herself shivering in horror as she recognizes his face. She trained him in the Red Room.

"Natasha?" says a voice, and she looks up without any surprise to see Hawkeye there, at the entrance to the alley. He's panting, his eyes worried. For her. That's a novel concept.

"Of course you'd be here," she says, making herself stand. She takes a step back; he holds up a hand.

"Let me help you," he says quietly. "There are more of them coming. They'll be here any moment. This one was going to capture you--"

"The rest were here to take me back," she guesses. Glancing around, she sees they have a defensible position; she kicks Fyodor's unconscious body out onto the plaza (again, cursing herself for not noticing how strangely empty it is) while Hawkeye goes to work arranging the bins. There's a larger skip they can crouch against to protect their backs; while she pulls her pistols out of her bag and loads them, she watches him assemble a bow, graceful hands working quickly. The bag over his shoulder turns out to contain a quiver, but not one she's ever seen before: mechanical, arrowheads neatly slotted in the base awaiting the shafts. Now she understands the arrow she saw in her flat in Monaco.

He settles into position next to her, shoulder to shoulder. Natasha sees the wild grin on his face and can't help but smile in response. How did it come to this, she wonders, that she's side by side with the man who'd set out to kill her?

"This is going to be fun," he promises, and she finds herself laughing even as the first gunshots ring out above their heads.

* * *

Afterward, Natasha will remember the pitched battle as an adrenaline rush, strangely exciting, an unexpected thrill. She's never been in this sort of fight before. Death is an old friend of hers, one she visits intimately upon her targets, using her hands, a knife, a garrotte. She prefers it that way. A murder, she's always thought, should be personal; should not lightly be forgotten. This is a slaughter, an impersonal bloodbath, all gunfire and bright blood geysering from her targets. And yet when it's over, when the shots have ceased and the taste of dust and cordite is bright on her tongue, she hears -- as if from far away -- her own wild laughter.

Hawkeye is giving her a worried look, but she brushes it off. They make a careful tally, ensuring that the men are all dead; while she gathers up their things, he goes through the bodies for identification. Unsurprisingly, none of them carry so much as a scrap of paper. He disassembles his bow and stashes it away again, then nods to her. "We have to go," he says, and though she's half-deaf from the shooting, she can make out the far-off sound of sirens.

"Where?" she asks.

"Hotel," he says, and she follows him without question. He just helped her survive; she may not trust him, but at this point she's not worried about whether he'll kill her.

* * *

Despite their ragged appearance, the upscale hotel admits them without question (Natasha suspects Hawkeye flashes some SHIELD identification that intimidates the desk clerk into silence). The hotel room itself is small, but it has two beds and that's all she cares about. She drops her bag, pulls out a change of clothes and announces that she's taking the first shower.

Hawkeye nods, looking absently at the television (which he'd turned on the moment they came in, to check for news of the fight). "You can call me Clint, by the way," he says. "Clint Barton. That's my real name."

Her eyebrow goes up as she unzips the hoodie and discards it on the floor. Then, fingers lingering on the buttons of her blouse, she smiles. The thrill from the fight still zings in her; she wants him, wants to keep feeling this alive. "Clint," she says. "Thank you. For helping me."

When her blouse joins the hoodie on the floor, he actually goes red and looks away. It's oddly sweet; Natasha pauses, unsure if his modesty is out of respect or naïveté. Then she deliberately undoes her bra, lets it slip and fall. "No need to be shy," she says.

His head comes up again, his eyes meeting hers. His eyes are a striking color: hazel, some might say, but it's a poor word to describe the rich mixture of sea-green and deep blue and brown. She smiles invitingly, holding a hand out to him, her smile as innocent -- and promising -- as she can make it.

The calculations and unsurety she can see in his face finally shut down, and he stands, comes to her.

* * *

The shower stall is not quite big enough for two people, but they manage anyway. It's possibly one of the first times Natasha has laughed so much during sex, slipping against each other, Clint teasingly holding the soap out of her reach until she threatens to break his arm. He washes her hair, which seems ridiculous until his fingers start massaging her scalp and she moans at the shimmer of pleasure and relief; after they've rinsed, he holds her up to the wall, his stance broad and solid, and fucks her until she screams.

When he comes, he bites her shoulder, and she wraps her arms around him and hates herself for the feeling of tenderness that washes through her.

She steps out afterward to let him finish cleaning himself. Drying off and dressing, she gives serious thought to slipping out of the room and leaving before he's turned the water off. Still, if this afternoon has proved anything to her, it's that he'll follow her to the ends of the earth -- and it won't just be him, either. Not after what the Red Room sent today.

There's also something gratifying in the surprise she sees on his face when he comes out of the shower, towel wrapped around his waist. It's quickly masked, of course, his eyebrows going up for only a split second; but she smiles nonetheless.

"I figured you'd leave," he says as he kneels to rummage in his bag for clothes.

"Thought about it," she admits.

"What made you change your mind?" Standing, he strips the towel off and steps into briefs, a clean pair of jeans, a dark violet t-shirt. Natasha makes no secret of eyeing him as he does so; his body is cleanly built, strong, and she didn't get nearly enough of looking at it in the shower.

She finds herself shrugging at his question. "You've probably already guessed," she says. "It's clear no matter where I go, I won't outrun you."

He smirks but says nothing, only finishes dressing. Feeling irritated somehow, she stands and goes to the window. There's a small balcony, a sliding door; her mind calculates methods of escape, but she folds her arms around herself and doesn't move.

"I've been on my own for a few years now," she says. "I've had to be the only one watching out for myself. But it's becoming apparent to me now that I can't keep running."

"You could quit," Clint offers, though he wisely stays where he is.

Natasha laughs, a hollow, broken sound. "Quit! And do what, take up knitting? No. I could support myself quite well, but I'd never be at peace. This is what I do." She rubs a hand through her damp hair, stares down to the street below. "There's no other life for me but this."

He stays silent, and she watches the traffic going by: cars, buses, people hurrying to their various destinations. Ordinary lives are things she's never really been familiar with. In a vague way, she understands the idea of families, parents and children: jobs, school, the things that make up the average day. It seems attractive and repellent all at once.

"Natasha?" Clint says at last, and she closes her eyes.

"I'm convinced," she says, hand cupped at the back of her neck. "SHIELD is clearly the only place I'll be safe. Make your call, do whatever you need to do."

Clint's smile widens. "You won't regret this," he says, though she feels as if she already does.

* * *

Three days and several phone calls later, the Black Widow finds herself being escorted into a nondescript building in New York, relieved of every weapon she carries (including the ones they can't find), and thoroughly debriefed by a panel of relentless interrogators. Of the process, the questioning is the only part she finds truly stressful. She'd been prepared to be stripped of weapons, fully aware that they could never take the most important one (her mind) from her. The interrogation, though: that was intense, lengthy, and unpleasant. Though she's trained to resist harsh interrogation and even torture, even her reserves have limits. She holds on to several of her deepest secrets, evades and avoids answering questions relating to her training and childhood, manages to keep a few things her own. Some of it will be valuable currency in case she has to bargain for her life; other things are simply private, the few shreds of memory that are still hers to keep. One thing, though, she plans to share only with the highest-ranking agent she meets.

At the end of the day, she finds herself left alone in a small interrogation room. She sips the last swallow of tolerable coffee from a styrofoam cup and idly plans her escape route. Up to the rooftop, then a jump across the narrow alley to the next building: down the fire escape, jacket turned inside out and a hood and sunglasses on, ducking into a cab. She can make the airport before they know she's gone.

She stays, though, and wonders why she's doing this. She's tired of running, and sure, the Red Room has clearly changed their mind about leaving her alone -- but there has to be another answer. She could have dropped off the grid, stocked up and gone to the safehouse that's furthest from civilization, stayed there for years.

Her own voice rings in her memory. _And done what, taken up knitting_? She'd go mad from boredom. She's not made to sit.

"--the _fuck_ were you thinking?" she hears from the hall outside, an unfamiliar, angry voice that grows in volume as it approaches. She sits up to listen.

"Sir, I was told to neutralize the target. Technically, that's what I did." Barton's voice now, calm and prosaic. "The information she's already given us is invaluable, and that's only the--"

"You brought one of the planet's most notorious spies and assassins into SHIELD protection because you couldn't take down a pretty face," the other man snarls. "Truth time, Barton. Have you slept with her?"

Natasha can't help but smile wryly. Clint's voice, on the other hand, is sarcastic; she pictures him rolling his eyes. "You're accusing me of being unable to complete my mission because I'm hoping to get into her pants? With all due respect, Director, you can kiss my ass."

The infamous Director Fury. _Well, you wanted a high-ranking agent_. Natasha finds her eyebrows rising in anticipation as the door opens on the man's glowering face. Behind him, Clint Barton looks perfectly neutral.

"Natasha Romanoff," says Nick Fury. "World-renowned spy and assassin, formerly of the KGB, now of no fixed address."

"Director Nicholas J. Fury," she replies equably, "of the United States military and now leader of its specialized espionage division." She raises an eyebrow at him. "I'm here to throw myself on your tender mercies."

Fury folds his arms and glances at Clint, then to her again. "You're prepared to swear loyalty to SHIELD? To let us do whatever we have to in order for you to become a safe asset for us?"

She shrugs and sits back, as casual as if she were taking tea in a cafe. "I'm prepared to survive," she says. "I have been convinced that SHIELD is the best means to that end. So: yes. I am."

"Hunh." The sound Fury makes is something akin to disbelief; he searches her eyes for a long moment, his gaze piercing, seeking. "Barton," he says, "would you excuse us for a moment?"

Clint's face is blank as he leaves the room. Once he's gone, Fury sits down across from Natasha, leaning forward, his forearms on the table. "All right," he says. "Tell me the truth this time."

Natasha had expected something like this. Fury is kinder than she had imagined he would be, though; it puts her off guard. "I thought I'd be locked up straight off," she replies. She flattens her hands on the table, looks down at them and then up at him. "You might still be better off doing that."

"I'm tempted," he says. This time his voice is lower: she'll come to recognize it, in the years ahead, as the I-am-done-taking-any-bullshit voice. "Explain to me why you're here, Romanoff."

"I don't want to die," she replies, bluntly. His visible eye flickers, and she hastens to continue. "You know what my background is like? What's available to public knowledge? Before I worked for the KGB, all the years I spent being trained and brainwashed by the Red Room?"

Fury nods, exhibiting no surprise. That's as she expected. "They're still unhappy that you left them."

She gives him a thin-lipped smile. "And as Agent Barton filled you in, I'm sure, they're still chasing me, more now than ever. But that's only part of it. I'm still -- programmed, for lack of a better word. Certain phrases, certain words -- even a fragment of a particular song -- will trigger my behavior."

She has to pause to swallow. Fury reaches for the pitcher set in the middle of the table, pours a cup of water for her. She gives him a grateful nod as she sips at it, waiting for the tension to recede from her throat.

"I've lost count," she says, when she can speak again, "of how many times I was reprogrammed, re-brainwashed, remade. I can put my finger on very few memories that are mine alone. It was sheer luck I got out with the ones I did." She swallows to keep her voice from trembling with anger. 

"And you want us to fix you?" Fury's eyebrows have gone up with disbelief.

Natasha can't help a low laugh. "I am a walking fuse, Director. In a way, yes, I am throwing myself on your mercy. I'm seeking protection. And it's true that my skill set is somewhat narrow. Within the range of what I can do, however, I'm good. Very good." She can smile at that, at least. "Agent Barton chose not to kill me. I'd like to think that's because I can be very useful to SHIELD. Call it a mutually beneficial arrangement. You get a world-class assassin, and I get my life. And if I get... fixed... into the bargain, then so be it." He still doesn't respond, so she leans forward a little. "And if I blow up, then you have my explicit permission to take me out."

Sitting back in his chair, Fury is quiet for a long moment. He rubs at a temple with two fingers, like he's trying to hold off an oncoming migraine. Finally, he stands.

"This isn't an easy call," he says, "nor is it mine alone to make. I'd like to take you at your word, but after everything you just said to me, I don't think I'd be very wise if I did that."

Natasha can't help a wry smile. "Indeed."

"I have some people I need to talk to. When we make a decision, I'll be back." He goes to the door and opens it, turning to her, eyebrow lowered over his visible eye. "Don't think you're going anywhere," he adds, and as he closes the door, she sees the guards stepping in to cover it.

She waits until he's gone before letting out the breath she's been holding in. At least she wasn't shot on sight.

* * *

An hour later, another agent enters the room: a woman in her late twenties by appearance, black hair brushed back into a neat bun against her skull. "Ms. Romanoff," she says, "I'm Agent Maria Hill. I'm going to be taking you downstairs." Through the open door, Natasha can see several more black-suited SHIELD agents, and she stands with a wry smile.

"Locking me up?" she asks.

"A temporary measure," Hill replies. She gestures, and Natasha exits the room first; Hill takes up a position next to her, guards flanking them as they walk. "While we verify that your story is true."

Natasha only nods. "I understand. I wouldn't expect any less."

Hill seems a little surprised at that, at least if the eyebrow that goes up is any indication. They remain in silence for the elevator ride down -- much longer than the one that had taken her up to the interrogation room, and she nods to herself: it'd make sense for SHIELD's holding facilities to be deep underground.

The cell has a bed and a toilet, at least, and solid concrete walls on either side. Clear plexiglass fronts the room; Natasha notes the hidden security cameras as well as the obvious ones. She sits on the bed obediently. Hill watches as an agent locks the door with some kind of electronic key.

"We'll keep you posted if anything changes," she says.

Natasha nods her thanks, keeps her face level and smooth until they're gone.

* * *

Her stay in the cell is a study in patience. The lights go off at night, so she can attempt to sleep on the thin mattress. With nothing else to do, she works on katas, push-ups, tai chi, as much of her training as the width of the cell allows. 

Three days in, Clint shows up with a box under his arm. As the guard lets him in, Natasha's eyebrows go up. "What is this?"

"It's called Scrabble," Clint says, dropping the box on the bed. "Come on. You've got to be bored out of your skin down here."

Despite herself, she begins to smile as he arranges the board, doles out tiles. He glances up at her, grins shamelessly. "Don't get all cocky," he warns her. "I'm good at this shit."

"We'll just see," she says, the smile tugging her mouth wider.

* * *

By some sort of mutual unspoken agreement, during Clint's visits, neither of them discusses what happened in the hotel room in Budapest. Natasha thinks that's for the best.

* * *

She's been in captivity for a fortnight or so when Fury appears one morning. She pushes herself up from the floor and dusts off her hands as he opens the door. With him is an unassuming man in a suit.

"This is Agent Phil Coulson," he says by way of introduction. "He's going to be getting you started with us."

"Getting started how?" she asks, fighting back the surprise and pleasure. She'd been sure they were planning to execute her.

"You want to be a SHIELD agent," Fury states. "There's a certain amount of training you're going to have to go through."

"Not to mention clearing you psychologically and physically," Coulson adds. "I'm going to be walking you through all of that."

"Personally?" Natasha can't help raising an eyebrow. The man gives her an inscrutable little smile.

"For some of it. Right this way, please." Coulson holds the door open for her, and Natasha shrugs and follows him. Though she does her best to hide her relief -- and her pleasure that SHIELD is taking her on after all -- she can't quite stop a smile from touching her lips.

* * *

In the ensuing months, Natasha discovers that Coulson is a man of understatement. He's also exceedingly well-trained: she learns well that he's Fury's right-hand man for a reason. He sets up interrogation programs for her (the information she divulged on entering the building was nothing as to what they continue to pry out of her, weeks later), works on getting her cleared on their general weaponry, and trains her in the multitude of SHIELD protocols. Even in this modern era of digital information, the training files take up gigabytes of storage space on a SHIELD-issue jump drive, and she has to learn and understand them all.

Then there's the physical training. If they can't learn her triggers, they can at least temper her abilities, add to them with non-lethal forms of the martial arts she already knows. She's fitted with new versions of her Widow's Bite, sleek black bracelets that might look like fashion accessories if not for the death contained within. (The original ones had been taken by R&D, apparently to be analyzed and upgraded into even more lethal models; she can't say she disapproves). Determined to prove herself worthy, Natasha throws everything she has into learning all that Coulson puts before her. 

For quite a long time, she sees no one but Coulson, Fury, and a few others: Agent Hill, who keeps an objective eye on her progress; a psychologist for twice-weekly sessions; an interrogator. She's kept in some sort of barracks within the headquarters, rooms that may nominally be meant for sleeping but in truth smell of old socks and stale sweat. More than once, she thinks of escaping, of finding a safehouse and freedom. The idea is more tempting than ever these days.

She doesn't entertain it, though. She knows too well that should she leave now, SHIELD will become an active enemy to her: that there will be no safe places left at all for her.

She meditates, instead, and seeks patience. For the most part, she succeeds. When she finds herself too restless, she goes to the gym and works on her training until she's too exhausted to think.

Finally, after nearly seven months of effort (she's kept diligent track of each day), Coulson stops her one morning before a sparring session to tell her she's cleared. She's to report to Fury's office for her first assignment.

Natasha's surprised at how pleased this makes her feel. Lately she's been hearing a sneering little voice from deep inside, mocking her, reminding her of all that she was. _Some assassin you've turned out to be_ , it whispers to her now. _From carving out your own fate -- laughing in the faces of the Red Room -- to lapping at the heels of American dogs? How much lower can you sink, to crave the approval of those who would have killed you_? She ruthlessly ignores it. What she's done, she reminds herself, she's done to survive.

* * *

Natasha's first official mission as an agent of SHIELD is to accompany Fury himself, as well as a full team of operatives, on a simple intel run. Natasha has no special role within the group, and that's fine with her. She quivers with the need to prove herself.

It's even better when she clocks the guard that nearly discovers them. The network they need to get to is, of course, impossible to hack from outside, which means a flight to China and then a boat ride in the dead of night to a small island off the coast. Natasha's on sentry duty outside the door of the server room, and she takes down the guard pacing toward them before he even notices her there.

The other agent looks at her, wide-eyed. She supposes her grin is a little feral, but she's never let it bother her before.

"Next one's yours," she tells him, with a wink. He swallows hard and pulls his gaze away.

* * *

Another six months of work go by. Despite herself, Natasha finds that she warms to working with others. She's still best alone, and she thinks Fury knows that, too, but she learns how to be part of a team, to follow orders and listen instead of making her own calls.

The other agents are slower to trust her, though she expects that. It's tedious, having to prove herself over and over again, but gradually she finds them relying on her more, less unwilling to trust her with their lives. Her one comfort is that Phil Coulson, having worked with her from the start, shows no such hesitation. And because he trusts her, Fury is starting to as well.

It makes her smile, sometimes, when she's lying awake in bed at night. If she really were a double agent, she'd be executing her job flawlessly. The trouble is: she isn't even sure she isn't. When that unwelcome thought slinks into her brain, she gets up and dresses, goes to work out. There'll be no sleeping after that.

* * *

In all that time, she's rarely seen Clint. Occasionally she catches sight of him in the gym, training, either alone or with other agents; but those times are rare. They're never assigned together, and unlike her, he isn't restricted to the building's barracks. She tries not to make her interest known, but she pays attention to when he's around and when he isn't. She picks up gossip now and then: he's hardly SHIELD's only field agent, but he's one of their best, and she catches murmurs of when he's off on assignment, when he's back.

Then, one afternoon on returning from an assignment, Fury stops her in the hallway and tells her to clear out her room. When she asks him why, startled and nervous, he breaks into a wider smile than she's seen on him yet.

"You're getting your own place, Romanoff. No more mooching off of SHIELD. Didn't Coulson tell you?"

Chuckling to himself, apparently amused at her surprise, Fury strides off down the hall. She's still staring after him, mouth open, when a hand claps her on the shoulder. Caught off guard for possibly the first time in her life, she actually jumps.

"Don't tell me I got the drop on you again," says Clint when she whirls on him, and she has to make herself laugh this time. She's almost tempted to hug him, she's so startled; but she keeps it to herself, alarmed by the impulse.

* * *

It's been more than a year since he last saw her. Clint wasn't really sure what to expect when he finally did -- aside from the very occasional glimpse in the gym or down a corridor -- but Natasha looks very similar to the way she did the last time he saw her, during their brief visits in the cells. She's in black again, although this time it's the standard SHIELD jumpsuit, only modified slightly for her weapons, and her curling hair is longer than he remembers it. Her sharp eyes are the same, though, seeing everything, taking in every word and glance and movement around her.

"So I hear you're moving out," he says as they walk together; he'd offered to take her to lunch, and the way she'd leapt at the suggestion tells him she hasn't been out of the building except for missions in a damn long time. Logical, but he doesn't have to like it. A brief stop at her room so that she can change into civvies, and they're on their way.

"Apparently so, yes." She nods, a smile touching the corner of her mouth and then disappearing. "I suppose all my hard work is finally paying off."

Clint chuckles. "From what I hear, you've been working wonders. 90 percent success rate in your missions, and even the ones that don't succeed, you're still making it out with an intact team. Not a lot of agents can boast that kind of rate."

Natasha shrugs, and when she glances up at him, he would swear he sees the slightest blush flare on her cheeks. It's only there for a moment, though, if it ever was. "I'm getting used to working with a team. It's not something I'm accustomed to."

"Don't get too used to it," he says, and when she looks over at him with one eyebrow raised, he grins. "I'll tell you when we get there."

* * *

'There' is a bar and grill down the street from the SHIELD building; due to its proximity, many of the agents go there for lunch or drinks after work, and Clint isn't surprised to see mostly familiar faces when they step inside. There are a few smiles that drop into concerned looks when they see Natasha with him, but he ignores them, leading her to a table in a corner where they'll have a little privacy. A moment later, a waitress arrives, and Clint gives her a carefree smile as he asks for iced tea. Natasha repeats the order and then takes the menu, but puts it down the moment the waitress is gone.

"I don't understand," she says. "What do you mean, 'don't get used to it'?"

Clint's grin widens a little and he leans in closer. "I'm not supposed to tell you this yet," he says, "but Fury's reassigning you to me. We're going to have a few trial missions, see if we work together well, and if we do, that's it. We'll be a team."

Natasha sits back. He can see her calculating it, her mind sifting the possibilities. She shrugs, finally, and opens her menu. "I suppose it could work."

"'Suppose'?" Clint laughs, hiding his dismay at her lack of enthusiasm. He'd been pleased as hell when Coulson told him about it, and he'd thought she would be too. Then again, it has been over a year since he brought her in, since he helped pass time in her cell playing board games and talking. Since Budapest. "No supposing about it, it'll be great."

She looks from the menu up to him. One eyebrow is raised. Clint goes quiet all at once, feeling like a bug under the bright and watchful eye of a bird. "If we do become a team," she says, "it means only that we are partners in the strictest sense. We work together; that is all."

 _Wow_ , Clint thinks but manages not to say. "Uh, of course," he comes up with instead. "I'm not some unprofessional asshole."

Natasha nods, apparently satisfied, and then the waitress returns with their drinks. He's tempted to order a beer, too, but settles for a hamburger, while Natasha opts for chili and a club sandwich.

Afterward, when they return to SHIELD so that Natasha can receive the keys to her new apartment, Coulson takes her aside to inform of her new assignment. Clint has one hell of a time keeping a straight face. It's even harder when she acts utterly surprised, not even a flicker of a glance at him, but he thinks he detects just a bit of pleasure in her reaction.

* * *

Their first few missions are milk runs, just as Clint had foretold. They're assigned to security details, set on rooftops to oversee UN delegates and politicians and protect visiting nobility. One of the missions does have a brief moment of excitement: there had been a threat against a mideastern prince's life earlier that week, and Natasha takes pleasure in sighting the red flash of a scope from an adjacent building, in firing and taking the potential assassin down before Clint's even aware of the enemy presence.

It's apparent from the first that they're a good team, though. Clint's precision is unmatched by any other that she's seen; when he explains that he's had a bow in his hands since he was ten, she begins to understand. Between his ability to scan a situation from a distance and dissect it to its bones at once, and her natural enjoyment of being in the middle of the action, they fit well together.

Slowly, their assignments migrate to a more global scale. Coulson is their handler more often than not; sometimes they have a team of agents backing them up, sometimes it's just the two of them (with, occasionally, a modest crew on the ground to provide intelligence). She learns his reaction times and his abilities in hand-to-hand combat. They spar, now and then, in their down time between runs. Natasha stops holding back after the first session. Clint does after the third.

* * *

They're somewhere in the middle of America, one of the grain-fed states that Natasha never bothered to learn the name of, when the mission goes from ordinary to completely insane in under a minute.

Natasha and Clint had been asking questions, trying to get some information about the lunatic scientist supposedly residing on the outskirts of the bucolic little town, but at the sound of screaming, of loud motors and bizarre laughing, they tear out of the convenience store to see an image that might have come straight out of some 1950s B-movie. She has a moment to regard the bizarreness of several large robots lurching comically down the town's main street -- maniacal laughter issues from some sort of speaker inside their cobbled-together carcasses -- and then they start tearing into everything within arm's reach. 

"What in the hell is _that_?!" Clint says, blinking in disbelief, just before one of them grabs a big SUV and lifts it up in the air. Metal tears; the robot throws it down the street, knocking over an electrical pole, shattering windows. Pedestrians who had been standing around gawking suddenly scatter for cover.

They're in no way a match for the things, but Clint goes in fighting anyway, using explosive arrows to try and knock the robots down, firing a harpoon-headed arrow to anchor a line across the street and clothesline them. While he does that, Natasha goes running, trying to get gawkers off the street, into buildings, out of the goddamn way.

Lunatic cackling draws her attention as she nears a standalone building; she looks up and sees a man perched on the roof of a drugstore. He's actually wearing a white labcoat and goggles, and he giggles to himself as he manipulates some sort of remote control. "Doctor Frankenstein, I presume," she mutters, and goes up the service ladder at the rear of the building. 

By the time she's knocked him out and shut down his remote control unit by way of putting a few bullets in it, Clint's taken out his fair share of the robots, too. He seems almost disappointed when they all go limp and fall over in unison.

After that, it's all cleanup. Natasha calls in to tell Coulson they can come pick up the scientist, now chained to an iron fence to make sure he doesn't go anywhere, and she and Clint get to work making sure there weren't any civilian injuries. For the most part, everyone seems to be all right; minor cuts and bruises, one young woman suffering from an electrical shock when one of the robots tried to grab her. 

She's begun to relax, watching the local police tape off the area around the heap of metal, when she hears a scream. Whipping around, she sees one of the collapsed robots pushing itself upright again. Clint's already pulling his bow off his shoulder, nocking an arrow. Taking no notice of him, the robot grabs one of the policemen -- Natasha sees the man jerking helplessly in its electrified grasp -- and then throws the body as far as it can. It makes a strangely graceful arch against the deep blue of the sky before landing with a sickening crunch.

Shocked by the force of her anger, she races across the street, managing somehow to duck another of those waving arms, and grabs the scientist by the throat. The man raises wild, rolling eyes to her; he continues to giggle even as Natasha squeezes. "What are you doing?" she demands, hissing in his face. "Stop it, stop it now!"

There's no answer but his continued giggling, quickly taking on an unhinged sound. In disgust, she bangs his head off the railing. At the same moment -- like a puppet with its strings cut -- the robot goes down again (this time, Natasha prays, for good). Clint's still got an arrow in place -- no, another one, she sees one of his explosive arrowheads already attached to the robot's back, but he touches a few buttons on the bow's handle and disables it. He turns, then, running down to where the policeman fell. After a moment, Natasha follows him, even though she knows it's already too late.

* * *

"This wasn't supposed to happen," he mutters later. SHIELD's finally arrived, too late to do any good; Coulson had taken one look at the damage and dismissed Clint and Natasha, telling them to go back to the hotel: he'd debrief them after the mopup was complete. Now, sitting at the bar, Clint stares at the remaining whiskey in his glass, then tips it up and back, finishing it in one convulsive gulp.

"We didn't know the man had some kind of brain control over one of them," Natasha says. She's been quiet for most of the afternoon, her eyes wide and watchful; Clint wonders if she's had an accidental death happen yet on her watch. "If we had--"

"We didn't know there were _robots_ ," Clint says, and waves a hand to the bartender, who has another shot lined up for him in an instant. Clint slugs that one back, too, then takes a longer, slower drink from his beer. They're flying back to New York in the morning; he can afford to get drunk tonight. He doesn't care if Coulson gives him that disapproving look. 

"We did the best we could," Natasha replies. Clint rests his chin in his hand and regards her. She'd ordered a glass of wine; half still remains, untouched. It's strange, Clint thinks, but she actually seems to be worried about him. He'd wondered if that was actually possible.

"Of course I'm worried about you," she says, looking stung.

He stares at her. "Did you just read my mind?"

Natasha's laugh is sudden and low. "No, Clint. You said that out loud. How drunk _are_ you?"

"Not drunk enough." He peers at his bottle, then starts to lift his hand to order another. Natasha catches it and lowers it to the bar, keeping her own wrapped around it. Her hand is soft, despite or perhaps because of the underlying strength he can feel in those delicate fingers. 

"I think you're just about done," she says. Her free hand settles on his back, rubbing long lines up and down. He can feel the heat through his jacket and resists the urge to arch to her touch like a cat. Shit, he really _is_ drunk.

"You're probably right," he sighs. "I just, I fuck, I fuckin' hate it when everything gets fucked up like that." When he looks at her again, he can feel his eyes wobbling in his head. "Even one person, that's still too many."

"I know." She bites her lip, white teeth set into the soft fullness, and it's everything Clint can do to keep from kissing her. Budapest, the shower, the way she undressed for him, it's all so vivid in his mind. "I know," she says again. "Not even one person should have been injured. We'll make sure it doesn't happen again."

Despite himself, he finds that he's leaning in towards her, wanting more of whatever she'll give him. It's almost painful, then, when she lets go, even if it's only to signal the bartender to bring their bill. "What, I'm not done," he says as she signs it to her room.

"You are," she says firmly. "Tomorrow morning doesn't need to be any worse than it already will be." While he's trying to parse that, she stands, helping him off the stool, shouldering his arm and guiding him out to the elevators.

She lets him lean on her through the short trip up to their rooms; when they reach his door, he lets himself rest on the wall and watch while she takes his keycard out of his pocket and unlocks the door. Her hair is longer than ever now. He's fascinated by it, dark red curls still caught up in the complicated ponytail she'd put it in for combat. He reaches up to touch it, to feel the softness of it curling around his fingers.

Natasha turns to give him a sharp look, and he drops his hand. "Right," he says. "Sorry."

After a moment, she inhales and shakes her head. "No, no. It's all right." She pushes the door open, then reaches for his shoulder. "Come on, we'll get you to bed."

He doesn't really want to sleep, but he knows that once he's horizontal, he will. Right now, he's all too aware of her; she's so steady next to him, taking his weight as if it's nothing. She gets him settled into a chair, kneels and starts to tug off his boots with no ceremony; Clint inhales at the image it presents. Budapest comes into his mind all over again.

"Come on, Nat," he says, "leave it, I'm fine. I can undress myself."

Her eyes flicker up to him, and he realizes belatedly that he's never used that nickname for her out loud. "I mean, Natasha. I--" He breaks off, wipes his hand over his mouth. "Why don't you go get some rest. I'm fine."

Her eyebrow arches. "That's the second time you've said that in the last two minutes. I'm not so sure you are."

"Well, I am." He leans forward to take her shoulders in his hands, to urge her to stand. She looks up at him again at the same moment, her eyes wide and dark and impossible to read.

The kiss happens so suddenly, so unexpectedly, that he's not sure who began it. He knows he was pulling her up and towards him at the same time; Natasha must have moved in, too, though, and if they're breaking the rule she set out at the beginning of their partnership -- well, he's no expert in these things but he can tell when a woman is kissing him of her own will.

He'd thought he remembered everything about Budapest, but he'd forgotten the sharp heat of her, like a livewire in his arms. She tastes sweet, somehow, even with the beer and wine, the dust of the fight and their mutual sorrow over the unnecessary death. When she stands and pulls on his hands, he follows her. He'd follow her anywhere; he knows that now.

They undress each other in a rush, fingers fumbling with zippers, pushing off jackets, stumbling out of half-undone boots. A distant part of him is glad he wore the basic SHIELD uniform today instead of his "hero costume" (as he calls it in his head). This one's quicker to get out of, a few snaps and zips and he's got the tunic off; then Natasha's peeling the undershirt from him, their frantic kisses interrupted only as long as it takes to drag the shirt over his head. His hands go to her suit, tugging the zipper down between her breasts until she can free her arms, pushing it down, kicking it off her legs. She's the one to pull up her undershirt and yank it off; Clint groans into her mouth -- the undershirt must have some support built in, because she's magnificent, gloriously naked beneath it, and he cups her gorgeous full breasts in his hands and lets her tip them over to the bed.

He'd thought -- expected, really -- that she'd push him to his back and have her way with him. That sounds pretty damn good; hell, _any_ fucking opportunity that leads to him getting to touch and kiss her works just fine for Clint. But she keeps them moving until he lays above her, weight braced on his forearms and the sweet fullness of her breasts squashed enticingly to his chest. Her eyes are dark, pupils blown. Despite his hunger (and hers; he's stiff in his briefs, and her parted legs let him feel the heat of her there, the slickness), he searches her eyes for any sign he should stop. He may be fairly drunk, but he remembers the conversation over lunch in New York, the one in which she coolly informed him that nothing physical would ever happen between them.

"Natasha," he breathes, hopeful and fearful all at once.

She makes an exasperated sound, slides her hands down over his back, along his spine, until she catches the waistband of his briefs and drags it down. "I know what I said," she tells him. "This is what I want. What you need--" She abandons her effort once his heavy cock is free of the restraining fabric, her all-too-knowing hand sliding around to catch him in her fist. Clint cries out, shoves the briefs the rest of the way off.

"All right, I mean, if you're _sure_ ," he tries to joke, working her panties off (surprisingly plain white cotton, somehow unspeakably erotic at the moment). His fingers skim back up, between her limber thighs, finding the source of that heat, warm skin, the rougher slide of thatched curls, and most of all the sleek moisture that dizzies him, the sweet scent of her arousal firing his blood with a desperate lust. He buries his face against her breast for a moment, fighting to keep from coming all over both of them. 

Natasha's gentle hand sleeks into his hair, combing it back against his skull, encouraging him to look up at her. When their eyes meet, she smiles, slips a leg easily around him, guides him to her with the hand still curved on his cock. Clint trembles at the first moment; her arms fold around his shoulders, drawing him in, and just as before, he follows her lead.

Clint's not at the top of his game right now, weary with death and drink. His only relief is that Natasha seems to know it, because he can't stand the thought of leaving her unimpressed. Or unsatisfied, for that matter; that, at least, is something he can provide, and he slicks his fingers down between their bellies, licks into her mouth and kisses her as his questing fingertips find their goal, the sweet taut nub of her clitoris. Natasha arches under him, gasping into his mouth, and he finally lets himself move in her.

He'd like to last, but he knows almost at once that it's just not going to happen. _Figures, the one chance I get--_ But she's beautiful beneath him, moving and writhing, arching to meet his pushes, and somehow he manages to hold out, to fend off the rush of climax until he sees hers take her. The strain of her body against his is one of the most exquisite sensations he thinks he's ever felt, and he drops his head, lets go with a groan and a final thrust.

Afterwards, panting into the crook of her shoulder, Clint lets her urge him down to rest on her, in her arms, between her legs. He sucks in a breath and turns his head to kiss her wherever he can reach: her jaw, the soft pale line of her throat, her collarbone. He's absurdly tempted to thank her, knows it for the idiocy it is. Instead, he murmurs, "Stay?"

Natasha inhales, her hands stilling on his back for a moment. Then she relaxes, resuming her slow strokes, and nods just briefly. "Of course," she says, her voice soft and hoarse.

* * *

In the morning ( _of course_ ) she's gone.

Clint tries not to be disappointed as he swallows a few aspirin and stumbles into the shower, but he is anyway. He should have realized that whatever this was, it was only for the night.

His phone buzzes while he's getting dressed: a text from Coulson, ordering him to the agent's room for the debriefing. He curses as he finishes dressing. At least Coulson gave them the evening, he thinks.

There is, thankfully, coffee in Coulson's room. There is also Natasha, who looks up at him with a cool, even gaze. In her eyes, he sees it clearly: as far as she's concerned, last night never happened. He gets that at once. He pours himself some coffee and sits down at the table next to Natasha, across from Coulson and his laptop, and they start without ceremony. If Coulson notices anything unusual between them, he says nothing of it.

* * *

It would be so easy to push the incident out of her mind, to pretend it never happened. Natasha's sure of that; even so, she finds she can't dismiss the memory so casually. Clint doesn't bring it up during the debriefing, nor after, when they board the SHIELD plane to fly back to New York (along with the mad scientist, safely chained and drugged into insensibility, and the robots' remains). And then they're reporting to Fury, being given a new assignment as if nothing happened -- and nothing did, right, that's what she wanted.

Clint seems more restored to himself. She contents herself with that.

* * *

The next time it happens, they're in California to get some information from a contact of Fury's. No names are exchanged; Natasha speaks to the man through a latticework covered in ivy between booths at a restaurant, while Clint pretends to read the menu and keeps an eye out for observers. The contact gets up to leave first; when they hear tires squeal on the street, both of them race out there just in time to grab the man and drop him to the ground before gunfire opens over their heads.

Heart racing, Natasha pushes to an elbow, the other hand dragging her gun out from where it's hidden in her jacket. While Clint covers their contact, she takes down the shooter and the wheelman, then pops the tires with two more bullets. People are still screaming as she gets to her feet, hand to her ear to contact Coulson.

Restless and twitchy during the debriefing, she barely makes it back to the hotel before dragging Clint's shirt off.

* * *

The third time is in London, where they return from the mission to find that the hotel has given them one large bed instead of two narrow ones. Clint strips back the sheets and holds her legs up to go down on her, then rolls them over so that she can fuck herself on him. She shouts when she comes, the echo of it ringing off the walls; he follows her over a moment later, fingers gripping her waist hard enough to leave bruises.

After, he rolls away from her and reaches for the bottle of water he'd left on the nightstand. "Is this gonna be a thing now?" he pants before taking a hearty gulp.

Natasha raises an eyebrow, waiting for him to finish. He offers her the bottle, and she drinks from it more slowly. "Is what going to be a thing?" she asks.

"This," he says, gesturing at the messy bed, sheets tangled in a heap at the foot, both of them still sweating from their exertions. When she doesn't answer, he groans. "Come on, are you gonna make me say it? Us, the -- the fucking."

Natasha hands the bottle back and pushes up to sit, resting against the headboard, her knees drawn up. "What if it is?" she asks.

"Little warning would've been nice." Clint finishes off the water and drops the empty bottle back on the nightstand, then sits up as well, standing and stretching. "Especially after you said this wasn't ever gonna happen, back in New York. Remember?"

She allows herself to be distracted for a moment by his nudity, the pleasing fullness of his ass, the powerful lapped muscle of his back. "Of course I remember," she says, pulling her gaze away to look at the cheap painting hung on the wall beside her instead.

"So what's the deal?" Clint asks. He finds a pair of clean briefs, stepping into them and then kneeling to take another water bottle out of the minifridge under the desk. "I mean--" A moment to uncap it, and he drops into the chair, legs splayed, watching her as he drinks. "Not that I'm complaining, because I'd have to be dead not to want you, but. Color me confused."

Natasha finds herself picking at her cuticles, critically examining her nails. "I suppose I changed my mind," she says after a moment, carefully not looking at him.

Clint barks a laugh at that, shakes his head. "Come on, Nat, I'm not stupid. I got it, that one time in Iowa, I was messed up about the guy dying, it was a pity fuck. But then in California, and now this? Twice is a fluke, three times is a pattern."

 _Four_ , she thinks but doesn't say, remembering Budapest. She lifts her eyes to his; there's a surprisingly kind look there, one she doesn't know how to accept. "Maybe," she says quietly, "maybe I needed a little relief too."

His eyebrow goes up, and she knows he won't just accept that. She looks at her fingers again. "I've had partners before who saw me as... a perk of the position. As a reward. I had to make sure you weren't like that."

Clint makes a quiet sound, almost a choke. She can feel his eyes on her, but she doesn't dare look up. "Natasha," he says, his voice low and tense. "I would _never_."

"I know that now," she replies. She inhales and lifts her eyes to his. After a moment, he nods, slowly relaxing, and takes another drink from his water.

"Well," he says quietly. "As long as we have that established."

* * *

Really, it's all going smoothly, better than Natasha had hoped. So, of course, it all goes to hell.

* * *

Natasha wakes up tied to a chair. It's far from the first time this has happened, but she certainly wasn't expecting it just now. A swift glance confirms that she's in their hotel room in Barcelona, and that one of her own electrocution wires binds her to the chair. She licks her lips; they're swollen, but she doesn't taste blood. As she lifts her head, wincing at pain at the base of her skull, she sees Clint sitting opposite her on one of the twin beds. His face is a disaster: his nose swelled, one eye black, a cut across his lip, and that's just what's visible.

"Sleeping Beauty awakes," he says. He holds up one of the modules from her belt: the remote control to the wire. Seeing it, she goes very still.

"What happened?" she asks, but a sinking, dark feeling inside tells her the question is unnecessary.

Clint seems to think so as well. "What's the last thing you remember?" he asks, almost a non sequitur.

She inhales, looking down. "We were at the cafe, observing the target." A simple intelligence run, this was: they were posing as a couple, gathering information on an Italian arms dealer vacationing in Barcelona with his latest wife. "I remember we ordered coffee."

"That's the last thing?" His voice has gone sharp.

It's an effort, but finally something swims back. There had been plenty of foot traffic past the little cafe, nothing out of the ordinary, not until someone had swayed a little off the sidewalk and among the tables. She remembers that he'd moved toward them, slowed, placed a hand on the back of her chair as if to steady himself. "The man who stopped at our table. He said something," she says, feeling unsure, "and then everything's black."

Clint's eyes are hard, his mouth a thin line. "What did he say?"

Natasha hears a low moaning sound coming out of her own throat. Somehow, she closes down on it. "I don't _remember_. I never do." She's shaking when she looks up at him again. "It was a trigger. It must have been."

"A trigger," Clint says now, uncomprehending. "You mean to tell me you've been brainwashed--"

 _How can he not know_ , she starts to think, but then she realizes: Fury never told him. She nods, pushing her own emotions down. She can't afford to break right now, not when he's so justifiably angry. 

"Programmed would be a better word," she says. "Yes."

The blood seems to simply drain out of his face, and he stands at once, dropping the remote and walking over to the window. Their hotel has a stunning view overlooking the city; somehow, though, she suspects he isn't seeing it.

It's quiet for too long; she can't stand it. "I'm so sorry," she says, dropping her head forward. "I honestly had no idea that you didn't know. I didn't imagine Fury would assign us together without--"

"Yeah, well, I guess he thought that was privileged information or some bullshit," Clint snarls. Out of the corner of her eye, she sees him whirl, stalk up to her. He grasps the hair at the back of her head and pulls her up; she lets him, adding a pained gasp to make it clear he's in control here. "Look at what you did to me, 'Tasha," he growls.

She doesn't blink. She's afraid to look away in that instant. Part of her wants him to hurt her, to atone for what she's done. A crust of blood has dried around one of his nostrils, and she can see another dried trickle of red in his scalp, purple-yellow bruises along his cheekbone, a dark gouge in his neck. "I see it," she says, allowing a tremble into her voice.

Clint makes a disgusted sound and lets go of her. She rolls her head back, letting it rest against the wall, watching him move away from her again. 

"I can't trust you," he says. "How the fuck can I trust you now? If whoever -- _programmed_ you -- if they can just walk up to you and do it whenever they want--"

"You shouldn't trust me," she replies, her voice dull. This isn't acting anymore: this is true. "You should kill me, like you were originally assigned to."

He gives a scoffing sort of dry laugh. "Yeah, well, shoulda, coulda, woulda." Dropping to the bed again, he tugs his cellphone out of his pocket. "Mission's compromised," he says. "I'm calling Coulson, getting us an extraction."

Natasha watches him warily. "What are you going to do with me?"

Phone to his ear, he barely glances her way. "Not my call," he says, and then addresses Coulson, effectively ignoring her. Natasha struggles to take in a breath. After everything she's done for SHIELD, all the progress she's made: is she to be sent back to that underground cell until an execution can be arranged?

* * *

If that's the case, Coulson says nothing of it. He arrives with a car to drive Clint and Natasha to the airport, having chartered a private flight to take them back to New York. His silence on the subject, as well as the fact that Clint doesn't bother cuffing or tying Natasha during the car ride or when they transfer to the plane, eases her mind slightly.

The cabin is empty save the three of them, and Coulson immediately goes to the far back, sitting by himself with his laptop on the table before him. Natasha takes another seat midway back, over the wing. Clint sits across the aisle from her, but facing her, and she knows she won't be able to escape his gaze for the entire trip.

She's nearly nodded off, despite the worry that continually courses through her, when she hears movement and opens her eyes to see him sitting down across from her. 

"Budapest," he says quietly. "I have to know. Were you -- was that a trigger then? When we fucked?"

Natasha's throat works even as she shakes her head. "No," she says. "I slept with you then because I wanted to-- because I wanted to--" She inhales, hates the words but knows she has to speak them. "I wanted to repay you for helping me. For not killing me."

"The other times?" His voice quivers with tension. "What about then?"

It takes even longer for her to be able to control her voice this time. "Those were. Those were different," she says in a whisper.

She feels Clint's eyes on her and looks down, away. After a long moment he gets up again, and she hears his footsteps moving to the rear of the plane. She wraps her arms around herself, wondering if she'll ever feel warm again.

* * *

She's allowed to walk into the building freely, without her hands tied. That means a great deal to her, and she reminds herself to thank Coulson for it later, should she have the chance.

Fury's office is high in the building, with one solid wall of glass overlooking Manhattan. It's not a perfect view, but it's gorgeous nonetheless, and Natasha has often found him standing there, hands folded behind his back. This time is no different. He doesn't move or acknowledge them when they enter; Coulson nudges Natasha to sit down at the desk, and then he and Clint turn and leave. She glances back at them, sees nothing but Clint's retreating back, his hunched shoulders before the doors close.

When she looks back at Fury, he's turned a little; she can't make out his expression, his form a silhouette against the light, but he nods to her, a gesture with his chin: _Come here_. She stands, steps up next to him at the window.

"This was my fault," he says, and she turns to stare at him, wide-eyed. His expression is regretful. Natasha reels in her surprise.

"How could it possibly--"

"I didn't warn Agent Barton about your programming," he says. "That was a mistake, and I'll have to find a way to apologize to him for it. I suppose..." He draws a breath, looking out the window again. "I thought I knew better."

Natasha inhales carefully before speaking. "Sir," she says, "I honestly don't understand."

Fury gives her the oddest smile of acknowledgment at that. Finally, he turns away from the window, a hand on her shoulder to bring her back to the wide desk; he sits down with her, on the same side of it. The symbolism isn't lost on her.

"I made the wrong call," he says as they sit. "We spent a lot of time observing you, Natasha, looking for any sign you might be triggered. We saw nothing. So I began to believe your triggers had faded. That can happen, over time. You would have been constantly re-programmed in the Red Room."

She nods slowly, though it doesn't quite make sense to her first; it doesn't seem possible that the specter that had dominated her life for so long could simply fade away. "You... thought I wasn't a danger anymore," she says slowly.

"And that's clearly not the case," he replies. He rubs his mouth with a big hand. It occurs to Natasha for the first time that Nick Fury, director of one of the world's biggest security and protection agencies, is frightened. Of her. Her gut curls and twists.

"What will you do with me now?" she has to ask.

"Nothing, without your consent." She blinks at that response as he reaches over the desk, taking a folder -- her dossier, she sees her name on it -- and opening it. "We're going to figure out how to break your programming," he says. "One way or another. Assuming that's what you want," he adds, that single visible eyebrow arching.

"Of course," she says automatically. Even if it means she'll never be able to work with Clint again, at least she won't be able to unconsciously hurt anyone else.

* * *

Fury informs her that she's temporarily suspended from active duty, though she'll continue to receive her pay as normal (not that she can possibly care about that right now); she's restricted to New York while they determine how to best proceed. "You'll be free to come here, if you want to train and use the facilities," he adds, and she can't help a strained smile at that.

"Never thought I'd see the day when I'd actually be _glad_ to know I was allowed in," she says wryly.

He dismisses her, then, and she makes it to the door before pausing. He'd stood, too, gone around to the other side of his desk; setting down the dossier, he gives her a questioning look.

"Sir," she says. "I need to apologize to Cl--to Agent Barton."

Fury nods at that, the look on his face inscrutable. "I think you'll find him in Agent Coulson's office," he tells her. She nods, gives him a little smile, and goes.

She doesn't know if he was keeping an eye on the security cameras or if maybe he's just psychic, but either way, she somehow isn't surprised to knock on Coulson's office door and find Clint there. They'd been talking or something; they both have that look of freezing in the middle of a conversation, and then Coulson nods. "We'll continue this later," he says, locking his computer and standing. "Agent Romanoff, if you'd like some privacy?"

She gapes for a moment as Coulson slips out, closes the door behind him. Of all the people she'd thought on her side -- and that number is small enough to count on one hand -- she hadn't quite expected Phil Coulson to be among them.

Clint's begun to stand, too, and Natasha holds out a hand. "Please," she says. "I know you don't want to talk to me, but I-- please, just give me a moment?"

He sits again, with a clear reluctance, and Natasha's throat tightens. She swallows hard. She hadn't expected this to matter so much. "Go on, then," he prompts, when she remains silent. She nods, but stays by the door, keeping the careful distance between them.

"I'm sorry," she says. "I know that probably means practically nothing, but I truly am sorry. I should have told you about it, I never should have just assumed that Director Fury would. I'm so sorry. I never wanted to hurt you like that."

Clint looks down. His fingers rub the bridge of his nose as he inhales. "Will it happen again?" he asks.

"I don't know." Her stomach churns; she presses a hand to her belly as if to quiet it. "But I'm going to try like hell to find a way to stop it. To make it so that it won't."

His eyes track up to hers again for a moment. The swelling has faded; he's healing nicely. She feels a surprising rush of gratitude for that. Then he stands, and she moves out of the way as he goes to the door, pulls it open. He looks at her again. His eyes are flat, as if he's looking at a stranger. "Good," he says, and goes out.

Natasha sinks to the chair at the desk -- the one he was just in, still warm with his body heat -- and presses her hands to her face, the heels jamming in her eyesockets until red shapes swim behind her eyelids. She doesn't want to think, to feel anything but physical pain, but it doesn't work. She still feels wetness trickling down her wrists.

* * *

This time, it doesn't take nearly as long for Nick Fury to reach a decision. She's been back at her apartment for less than a day when her phone rings with his number. It's a welcome distraction: she's been unable to focus, wandering listlessly around the small flat, picking things up and putting them down again. Her SHIELD-issue laptop offers no relief, stripped at it has been of any games, anything that might let her think of something else for even a moment. She tries to cook, but her appetite has soured; the chicken smells strange even though she's sure it was fresh, and she scrapes it all into the garbage.

When the phone began to buzz, her heart thumps painfully, suddenly. She realizes that she's hoping it's Clint and scolds herself even as she picks it up and sees Fury's number. "Sir?" she answers.

"I'd like to see you in my office in five minutes," he replies. Her heart begins to pound hard again.

"Of course," she says, and goes to get into clean clothes immediately. It's not in her to hope too much, to wish for things that can't be; as she dresses, quick and efficient, she simply prays whatever happens will end things quick and clean. 

_They'll kill me_ , she thinks, for perhaps the thousandth time. It seems logical. She's become an expensive disaster, after all. It's never occurred to her to believe otherwise.

* * *

Coulson and Hill are both in Fury's office when she arrives, standing to either side of the desk. Natasha holds her head up, strides in and takes her place before the desk, her legs spread wide, arms behind her back. "Sir," she says. Fury gestures to the chair, but she shakes her head. "I'd rather stand, if it's all the same to you. Sir."

Fury's eyebrow goes up; then he draws out his own chair and settles into it. "Suit yourself," he says. "We've decided to send you to Phoenix House. It's a special facility we have upstate."

Natasha can feel her legs trembling a little. That doesn't sound like an execution order. "What kind of facility?" she asks.

"We keep it for our agents who can no longer function, or for those in need of mental rehabilitation." Fury pushes the tablet before him across the desk to her; despite herself, Natasha sits so that she can see the images on it. Everything she sees speaks of discreet, expensive seclusion: a large central building resembling a manor house, extensive grounds, a remote location surrounded by acres of tree-covered land. She imagines it must be what some of the more exclusive celebrity rehabs look like. "We'll have to design your therapy very carefully," he goes on, as she looks through the images. "You'll be deeply involved every step of the way."

She can't help but let go a wry laugh at that. "I suppose that's better than sitting back and being experimented on." Sitting back, she pushes the tablet back to Fury. "So when does this start?"

"As soon as you can pack a bag," he replies. "We're lining up a team right now; they'll meet you there."

Natasha swallows hard against an unexpected thickness in her throat. She has to look down until the blurring in her eyes passes. The emotion she feels takes a long time to identify. It's not until she's put together a suitcase, until she's in the back of a SHIELD car being driven out of New York City, that she's able to name it: _hope_.

* * *

Phoenix House's administrator welcomes her on arrival, taking it upon herself to show Natasha around. Natasha's confused at first -- she'd half-expected to be brought here and marched into a room, door locked behind her -- but the tension in her shoulders gradually eases as she and Dr. Tan tour the grounds. She'll have the run of the place, within limits; Dr. Tan shows her the extensive gardens, walled on three sides by the house and on the last by a tall stone fence. Though there's a door in it, Natasha doesn't need to ask to know it's locked; for her safety as well as that of others, she assumes, not that she has any desire to test it. There's a gym, a lounge (her choice of television will be limited, she's informed, not that it matters particularly to her), a kitchen with a common dining room where all meals will be served. The whole of it is decorated tastefully in pale shades of white and grey. Even the paintings on the walls are done in soft pastels, unthreatening. 

If she ends up here forever, locked away from the world, that's still lightyears better than what she'd expected. Natasha's been in much worse prisons.

As Fury promised, a group of therapists have been put together: some work at Phoenix House already, while others have been pulled from different jobs. Her next few days are spent in interviews with each. The process is tedious; she feels as if the only thing changing is the face before her, their questions are so similar, and she never does learn all of their names.

She's given a room high up in the building; tucked in a corner, she has views in two directions -- even if all she can see is trees, a glimmer of water from a nearby lake, and the occasional spout of chimney smoke far in the distance. The room, like the rest of the place, has been designed to be pleasantly soothing, but it's too big for her. After some negotiation, she's allowed a few changing screens to block her bed off from the rest of the room. It's easier to sleep this way; as a bonus, if anyone tries to break in, she'll hear them either moving the screens or knocking into them.

Paranoia, she notes absently, never completely dies.

* * *

Once Clint gets over being pissed at what happened -- which doesn't take long, really; Fury's apology had startled him out of the last real anger he'd held -- he starts to wonder how Natasha's doing.

Part of him knows it's a bad idea, but the fact is, he's kind of attached to her now. He's back on solo missions now that she's tucked away in therapy; though he tells himself it's good, he's an old hand at working on his own, there's a part of him that just doesn't buy it. The most frustrating moment is when he's sent to London for a mission and somehow ends up in the same hotel they stayed at (and screwed in) last time. It might even be the same room. There's no scent of her, there couldn't be -- but he peels the sheets back and collapses on the bed, letting himself indulge in memories all the same.

When he gets back, he goes straight to Coulson's office. Coulson looks up when he enters, his eyebrows raised in blank curiosity.

"I need to take some time off," he says as soon as the door's closed behind him. It's been well over a month since Natasha was taken to the facility; he may not have heard a damn thing, but he doesn't believe that no news is good news.

"If you're planning a trip upstate, I'm going to have to deny it," Coulson replies, nodding to the chair across from him. Clint slumps in it, scratching at a bare bicep. He didn't even stop at his apartment to change first.

"I don't know what you're talking about," Clint says.

Coulson inhales for just a moment; then he turns to directly face Clint, ignoring the report he'd been typing up on his laptop. "You can't see her," he says calmly. "You've got to know that."

Clint shakes his head. "I'm tired of not hearing anything. I just want to talk to her, see how she is."

Coulson's quiet for a moment; then he turns back to his laptop. For a moment, Clint seethes in frustration: is he being dismissed? But then Coulson takes a jump drive from a desk drawer and plugs it into a USB slot. A few quick clicks with the mouse, then Coulson tugs the drive out and sets it before Clint.

"Read this before you go running off rashly," he says. "Go ahead and take that home. Destroy it afterward."

Clint inhales, but he picks up the drive and tucks it into an inner pocket. He stands, nodding his thanks, and hurries out.

* * *

Several hours later, still dirty from the flight back, Clint sits back on his couch and rubs a hand over his mouth. The reports Coulson gave him are maddeningly inconclusive, but that in itself tells him quite a bit. Natasha's not making progress; there's no in, no way for them to learn what triggers her so that they can break it. Traditional deprogramming isn't working, and while she's remembering more of her past than she'd initially been able (or willing) to discuss when she first entered SHIELD, it's apparently doing nothing to help with her conditioning. SHIELD's team of carefully assembled experts might as well be so much window dressing.

Clint finally takes the jump drive out, dropping it to the floor and crushing it with a booted heel. As he heads to the bathroom, stripping off his work clothes along the way, he starts to smile. He's going to take that time off after all. He's just going to use it in a different way than Coulson had thought.

* * *

She thinks she's doing all right, but in truth, Natasha has no way to gauge the effectiveness of her therapy. She hasn't had any blackouts or missing time; that means nothing except that she's not been triggered again. 

After one of the doctors suggests she try to keep track of her days, she starts a journal, using pen and paper and writing in Russian so that it can't easily be picked up and read by any prying eyes. She records the events of her uneventful days, tries to transcribe events that have been brought up in therapy sessions: the car accident that claimed her parents before she'd turned ten, her indoctrination into the place that became substitute for home and parents and love before she reached eleven years of age. Her first meeting with Clint, and how she'd run from him before turning toward him as her own option for a safe haven.

At least once a day, she thinks of Clint, of his smile when she'd agreed to go in to SHIELD with him and of his stony face the last time she'd seen him. She'd found a life within the ranks of SHIELD, made acquaintances and gained trust -- but Clint is the only true friend she has, and every night she prays that he hasn't given up on her.

* * *

It takes him a month, between the research and the physical work. Clint's glad of the grounding of knowledge he earned while tracking Natasha down in the first place, but that's nothing compared to the work he has to do getting information on the underground espionage program known only as the Red Room. SHIELD has next to nothing on them -- even Coulson's efforts come up empty, though Clint's grateful for his superior's help -- and Clint's contacts in the field are as closemouthed on the subject as ever. He doesn't mind the groundwork, though; he's fascinated by every bit of information he manages to scrape together, and eventually he has enough to start puzzling together the pieces. A location -- not the primary facility, but still useful, as it's apparently one where certain drug formulas are produced -- and a list of names. Some of them are clearly unhelpful (the owners being mysteriously deceased), but Clint finds one of them, a discredited doctor, and tracks the man down to his home in St. Petersburg.

* * *

"What the fuck is this?" asks a very displeased Nick Fury two days later.

Clint's grin is only a little savage. He whips the blindfold from the man's head. Dr. Anton Ulyanov blinks, goes wide-eyed as he takes in his surroundings. His head turns to catch sight of Clint, and he makes a little sound of pure fear, jerking away as much as he can -- not very far, given that he's lying in a heap, tied up on the floor.

"This," Clint says, barely restraining the anger and pleasure in his voice, "is the man who engineered Natasha's conditioning."

Fury's eyebrow goes up. He inhales as if he's about to say something, then pauses. "I'm going to do us both a favor," he says, "and not ask how you got him."

"That would probably be best, sir." 

They're on the brand new deck of the helicarrier, an astonishing vehicle the likes of which most modern technology has yet to approach. Clint had taken a jet -- authorized privately by Coulson -- to retrieve the doctor and bring him here. He hadn't been able to resist a few extra tightenings of the cords he'd used to tie the man up, a few not-so-subtle promises of what Clint would do to him if he tried to escape or refused to help Natasha.

He might not be able to directly aid her in breaking the programming, but he can do this. He only hopes it's enough.

* * *

After that, Clint does his best to ignore the passing of time. He focuses on his work, on missions; he keeps his head down and doesn't ask about Natasha. He's partnered with a couple of different people, and while they work together all right, it's not the same. When he finds himself missing Natasha, he pushes the thoughts away in practice, in training, trying to distract his brain by exhausting his body. He doesn't even think about other women anymore. There's no one else for him but her.

It's been seven months since his capture of Dr. Ulyanov when he's summoned to Fury's private office on the helicarrier. He's expecting a new assignment, so he's surprised to see another person there, a slim figure standing by Fury's desk, when he enters. It actually takes him a moment to recognize--

"Natasha," he breathes, his feet suddenly glued to the floor.

Her smile barely dimples her cheeks; she nods in return. "Clint." He drinks her in, his mouth open in astonishment. She's lost weight; the SHIELD uniform is baggy on her, a sight that makes him wince. She wasn't overweight before, but now she's skin and bones. Her hair's longer, too, held back in a simple tail at her nape; her eyes look bruised and dark, and Clint finds himself fighting the urge to go to her.

"As you can see," Fury interrupts, his voice gentle, "Agent Romanoff has returned to us." He gestures for Clint to come closer. Clint manages it without taking his eyes off Natasha, stopping next to his desk.

"Agent Barton," Natasha says after a moment, her smile a little more natural. "Director Fury's trying to get your attention."

Clint can't help a brief, wry laugh, but he finally tears his gaze away from Natasha to look at Fury, who's clearly suppressing a smile of his own. "Clint," he says, "I'd like you to take Natasha on a tour of the helicarrier and get her familiar with it. After that, you'll be returning to New York to await your next mission." He pauses, his voice wry. "Think you can handle that?"

"Yes, sir," Clint says, trying not to sound too eager. He holds out a hand, and Natasha moves with him to the door.

* * *

"I can't believe it," he says once they're outside. "It's been nine months, I was starting to w--"

"Eight months, three weeks, two days," she corrects him. There's a fragility to her that he's never seen before, a tone in her voice that speaks of hard-won sanity. He can barely hear her footfalls on the steel decking below their feet.

Clint swallows, guiding her toward the elevators with the barest brush of his hand at the narrow small of her back. "I haven't forgotten," he says quietly.

Natasha glances up at him, and that faint smile plays at her lips. "I didn't think so." They pause at the elevator doors, and she inhales and looks up at him. "You. What you did for me, finding that doctor. I won't ever be able to thank you enough."

He shakes his head at that. "No, it--it wasn't like that."

She nods, reaching to touch him with a gentle hand. She's not wearing any of her weapons; he wonders briefly where they are, or if she's still not trusted with them. "I know. But still." She manages a little wry laugh, though it doesn't begin to convey amusement. "You should have seen me when I first saw him. I nearly killed him. Lunged across the table, I wasn't even thinking about it. Just seeing his _face_ again--" She gives a delicate shudder, then steps into the elevator as the doors open. 

"So he was the one who did the work on you?" Clint asks.

"Yes, although I didn't recognize him at first. Apparently you scared him but good," she adds, and the way she arches her eyebrow is so familiar and so _Natasha_ that it makes him ache. "He was all too eager to work with everyone."

Clint gives a laugh of his own now. "Wasn't really that difficult," he says. "Finding him, that was the hard part, but--" He cuts himself off with an inhale, glances briefly at her. The elevator doors open, but neither of them step out right away; her eyes are turned up to his. He reaches for her hand, relieved when she lets him take it. "Nat," he murmurs. "I--"

The doors begin to close again; she reaches out with her free hand to stop them. "Why don't we find somewhere to talk?" she suggests, and he nods, relieved.

* * *

Clint has yet to see the helicarrier in the air, but even in the water it's pretty amazing. He leads Natasha to a small viewing room in what's been called the wishbone section; the hull, solid at the front, breaks away into wings below the rear deck. Between them, the decks are all fitted with wide clear windows open to the back -- to the bow, he supposes naval terms would be more appropriate. The observatory room is situated almost on the lowest level, with laboratories on the levels above; below them lie only maintenance areas, the space where the pipes and wires and everything that makes the helicarrier go are located.

It's not just darkness outside the windows, though: floodlights glow out into the water, and schools of curious fish contantly follow them, fascinated by the unusual light they rarely see. Natasha stands right up to the glass, her breath held for long moments as she watches; Clint stands a few feet behind her, content simply to watch her. Finally, she turns to him, her smile wider than he's seen in ages, and reaches for his hand. He lets her draw him back to a bench, sitting down with a carefully measured space between them.

Though it's been eight months, three weeks and two days since the last time he saw her -- despite how much he's missed her and how much he wants to touch her -- he manages to refrain, to keep his hands from making sure she's real. Instead, he simply absorbs the sight of her, learning all over again the depth of her eyes, the soft curls of her hair springing free of the ponytail at her nape, the brittle tension with which she holds herself. Truth be told, he's a little worried that if he touched her, she'd shatter apart.

* * *

Seated at a careful distance from Clint, Natasha watches him search for the words. He's never been the most articulate man she's known, but he's one of the most intelligent, one of the best at being able to see to the heart of something and cut straight to its center. "Clint," she says quietly, when he still seems to be struggling. She reaches over and catches his nearer hand.

That seems to ease him somehow; he turns his hand to curl his fingers through hers. "For almost nine months, " he says, "I wanted to say that -- that I'm sorry. It was really hard dealing with -- when you got triggered, what happened to you. After all that time, all the shit we went through together, I thought I knew you. It wasn't easy realizing I didn't know you at all. And it was wrong of me to get so angry and put it all on you."

Her throat works; she'd say something, but he continues, his eyes meeting hers. "You don't have to say anything. Fury apologized to me for not tellin' me, but I kinda see his reasoning now. So it's all right."

It's not, she thinks, but at least she'll have a chance to make it up to him now. His thumb rubs the side of her hand, and she lets her gaze fall there. Even the simple touch is more than she's had in weeks; the slightest slide of his thumb seems to send her pulse racing, as if she has no more control than a child.

"I don't know what's going to happen after this, but--." His smile is slight; she catches it nonetheless. "I'm going to make sure we're assigned together again. I've missed you too much."

She nods, swallowing, making herself smile just briefly. "I'd like that. I-- It means so much to me that you'd be willing to trust me again."

When she looks up at him, he quirks a moment's smile in response, the corner of his mouth deepening. It warms her. "Here's the kinda weird thing," he says. "I don't think I ever stopped. Trusting you, you know?"

That makes her laugh, possibly for the first time in weeks, and she drops her head. "Too sentimental for your own good, Barton," she says.

"Yeah, well. Never did see the harm in that." He tugs on her hand; she lets herself slide a little closer on the bench, its cushioning soft under her thighs. "Time and a place for it, that's all."

She looks up at him again, appraising. It feels like forever since she last saw him, even longer since she saw that smile. Before she even lets herself think about it, she leans up to kiss him. It might be the first spontaneous thing she's ever done in her life.

Clint makes a surprised sound, and Natasha draws back at once, concerned, searching the expression in his eyes. "Clint?"

He shakes his head, his hands coming up to cradle her face, and tips his head to kiss her again. This time, she's the one who gasps, a whimper of pleasure and need climbing out of her throat as she pushes closer to him. _Yes_ , she's missed this, she wants him, needs him--

She pulls away from the kiss reluctantly, panting; she can hear his shallow breathing, too, and gives him a rueful smile. "Perhaps, ah. Perhaps not just yet."

Clint's laugh is low and frustrated, but he tips his forehead to hers and smiles. "I get it," he says. "Whatever you need, Nat. I'm OK with that."

Her throat works, and she has to turn her head to press one more soft, swift kiss to his mouth. "I'll never be able to--" She swallows. She'd been about to say 'repay', but she can't think of sexual favors as debt payments anymore. "To thank you enough," she says instead.

He's the one who pulls back this time, looking a little puzzled. Natasha takes his hand again, holding it between hers on her thigh. "You saved me," she says. "In Budapest, but even before that, by offering me a chance at a different life with SHIELD. Do you remember when you asked me if -- when we were together in Budapest, if that was because I was triggered? I said that it was repayment." She keeps hold of his hand as his expression darkens, goes a little more neutral. "It wasn't -- tit for tat, favor for favor. Not like that. I've made a lot of enemies in my life, in my line of work. I've accrued debt, but I never had a way to wipe it out. I never cared to. And now--" He opens his mouth to protest, and she shakes her head. "I've finally got a way to do that. So, because of the chance you took on me, I feel like I owe you."

"No," he says. "That's not why I did it."

"I know that." She finds herself smiling softly, feels it touching her eyes. "In some cultures, when someone saves your life, you're in debt to them. You owe them that protection in return. That's how it is for me."

Clint gives a brief, low laugh. His free hand comes up to touch her cheek again, his thumb slipping over her cheekbone. "Is that what Budapest was to you? A business transaction?"

She bites her lip a moment, then shakes her head, still watching him. "No. Though I tried to convince myself it was. Even then, I think I was already... already attached to you."

"Attached," he repeats, makes a little scoffing sound. "Hm." But he doesn't pursue it, thank God; instead he smiles. "So you owe me, huh? That mean I'm stuck with you until you save my life?"

"That's the idea," she says, managing a smile. 

Clint leans in, this time pressing his lips to her forehead. "I can live with that," he says.


End file.
